The Empty House
by grannysknitting
Summary: It's the inevitable remake of ACD's classic, because I can...
1. Chapter 1

AN – it's the inevitable remake of the ACD classic – the reunion between detective and blogger.

The Empty House

John gave him one week. One week to not be dead – to answer the impossible plea made at the graveside of his best and dearest friend. Not even the fact that Sherlock was dead could strip him of that title.

Of course, he also gave Sherlock a lot of encouragement over the course of that week. Or perhaps incentive was a better word for it, really. Sherlock was the one who did the grammar and word choice of the two of them – John could speak perfectly well, but he wasn't posh.

Incentive came in the form of John cleaning the kitchen out completely, followed by the other cupboards and storage area's that Sherlock liked to keep his experiments. He packed up the science equipment and stored it in the box room next to his own room and when that didn't bring Sherlock back he went into the consulting detectives bedroom and put away all the knick knacks and objects there before stripping the bed and covering everything with dust sheets.

When _that_ brought no response, he went through the living room, putting away the files and books that Sherlock typically scattered around the room when working. A patient of his ran a well-known music store – a proper one with classical and modern instruments, one that not only sold but also repaired and serviced said instruments too – and she was happy to come along and see to the proper long term storage of Sherlock's violin. John put the case in Sherlock's bedroom, on the middle of the bed, covered with its very own dust sheet. Sherlock's computer went next to it, packed away in a carry case.

He packed his own things too. His books and everything went into boxes, his clothes were divvied up – some for charity, some for storage – and his gear was made ready for storage. Mrs Hudson had already told him that Mycroft had paid for her to store Sherlock's things at Baker Street and confirmed that she wouldn't mind storing John's as well, though she was not happy that he was leaving.

At the end of the week the flat was prepared for a long absence and John stomped off to the Diogenes Club, where he informed the doorman that if Mycroft didn't agree to come see him immediately then John would start singing at the top of his lungs. He proposed to start with a medley of Queen and then possibly segue into something a bit louder, possibly from Metallica.

He was shown directly into a small room and Mycroft appeared only seconds later, a faintly alarmed look on his face.

"My dear John, I assure you that threats were unnecessary," he began in that tone that had always made Sherlock impossible to deal with for hours afterwards.

"Yeah, but it worked," John smiled in reply. It was not a nice smile. The men and women of the Northumberland Fusiliers would have recognised that smile instantly and every last one of them would have ducked for cover. Mycroft seemed to recognise this and fell quiet, which was for the best, really.

"I've come as a courtesy Mycroft," John informed the remaining Holmes' brother, "God knows if your penchant for controlling me extends beyond the death of Sherlock, but I thought I'd give you a sporting chance. You can either arrange for the army to take me back on as a surgeon, or I will march myself off to the nearest Medecins Sans Frontieres office and sign up to work in the most troubled spot I can find."

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft raised an astonished eyebrow, which was as close to an honest reaction as John had ever seen in the man. John folded his arms and tapped his foot. When no further reaction was forthcoming he gave a short nod and headed for the door.

"A moment, please, Dr Watson," Mycroft called and John stopped, turning to look at his best friend's annoying elder brother. Mycroft gestured to a chair, which John ignored, raising his eyebrows in silent challenge.

"I understood that the discharge from the army was permanent," Mycroft said carefully and John shook his head.

"Only until I retrained or the nerve damage that caused the tremor was resolved. I haven't had a tremor in months and when Sherlock was overseas for three weeks working for you back in January I got my licence to practice surgery reinstated. He didn't know about it and I wasn't going to mention it unless things went pear shaped," John replied. Mycroft looked like he was mentally signing some poor surveillance drones death warrant.

"Very well," Mycroft replied at length, "I will see to it that your commission is reactivated. It will take me several weeks…"

"One," John interrupted, "Or I go work for Doctors Without Borders."

"My dear John, these things do take a little time, even for someone with my contacts…" Mycroft began, condescension dripping everywhere, but John wasn't having that.

"Bollocks," he interrupted again, "One week or off I go, Mycroft. I don't know why you want to continue to control me, but if you want to know where I am and what I'm doing you'll have me back in green at the end of next week."

"Very well," Mycroft looked deeply unhappy, something which would have made Sherlock beam at John with pride and John let himself out quietly.

%&%&%


	2. Chapter 2

Forgot in the first chapter – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

Mycroft was true to his word. A small part of John was vaguely hopeful that this meant that John was still needed – that somewhere out there, Sherlock was off doing Sherlockian things and Mycroft was keeping his little brother's toys in order. It was only a small part of John, though. The rest of him knew that it was just Mycroft's need for controlling people working in John's favour – for once.

Mrs Hudson was a bit tearful, but John promised to call her and helped set up a Skype address so they could chat. He would also be sending her his half of the rent because technically his stuff was still there. He'd made it very clear that she could throw it all away if she got a tenant into the flat and she made it very clear that Would Not Happen.

Harry was furious and hung up on him three times, then called back so drunk that he hung up on her. When she'd finally sobered up and managed to call without shouting abuse in his ear she made it very clear that she would forgive him if he un-enlisted immediately. When he refused to do so – pointing out that un-enlist wasn't a word in the way that all smart arse little brothers never quite grew out of – she advised him that she would never speak to him again and that as far as she was concerned from now on she was an only child. Her decision didn't surprise him, really and he let her go with only a little regret.

He had a farewell pint with Mike Stamford who couldn't believe he was going off to get shot at again, and spent his last night in London before leaving to report for duty wandering the streets, indulging in the memories he had of the city, both with and without Sherlock.

John hadn't been able to do as Sherlock asked. He hadn't been able to tell the world the man was a fraud, nor had he been able to forget about him. There was an active graffiti campaign on at the moment: 'I believe' was popping up everywhere and John had … let it all go. He couldn't bear the thought of joining in, even though he did believe in Sherlock and had said so on the blog, but nor would he condemn it. He hadn't spoken to anyone from the Yard since Sherlock had died and saw no reason to seek them out either. Lestrade wouldn't care where John was or what he was doing – he had only been useful as Sherlock's go between and 'handler' to the DI and besides the DI was in enough trouble of his own at the moment.

Of course, John had been expecting some sort of interference from Mycroft, so when he reported for duty he was informed that he'd been stepped up a rank to Major and that he would be re-deployed overseas to the hospital facility at Bastion. His orders very clearly put him in charge of a department and John would NOT be allowed to step foot in the field. It wasn't what he'd had in mind, but it got him out of London and doing something useful once more, so he didn't fuss.

Of course, the army didn't just hand him a uniform and send him off. John went through a week of basic training and then a thorough physical and mental assessment, which he passed with flying colours. The grief for Sherlock was still there, but John had found channelling it into activity worked wonders and the PTSD diagnosis was revoked. John requalified as a marksman and sat through a round of detailed briefings to get him up to speed.

Being back in green was oddly soothing. There was the order and discipline side of things, something that contrasted sharply with the chaos of the flat, and there was also a sense of purpose, something that John had lost suddenly only weeks ago.

As a Major he was in command of 120 other people and would be second in command out at Bastion, reporting to Colonel Walker. The Major he was replacing was being retired – which was Military code for 'hole in his bag of marbles' – and there was a lot to review before he reached the base. Luckily John had not lost his skill of researching on the run – in fact he'd improved it during his time with Sherlock – so the idea of reading and absorbing many personnel files and situation reports as he travelled didn't faze him.

Bastion was as he remembered. It was a standard military installation, with sheds and prefabricated buildings set up as well as the usual sleeping quarters and shower blocks. John's office was a shipping container that had been split into three sections – office first, then his sleeping quarters, then a shower/toilet/basin space. The hospital space was what he'd expected and the usual ammunition and fuel dumps as well as the machinery sheds were dotted about where he remembered.

Colonel Walker was waiting for him, so John didn't dawdle. Walker was not medically trained and oversaw the running of the whole camp – it would be down to John to manage the other surgeons, nurses, orderlies and allied health staff, as well as running the administration side of the hospital and reporting to Walker after the fact.

"At ease, Major," Walker snapped a salute in reply, dark eyes looking John over closely. They weren't half as sharp as Sherlock's nor half as perceptive but John put that thought aside. His best friend may be gone, but that didn't mean he was forgotten, hovering always close to John's thoughts.

"Thank you sir," John replied and took the seat that was indicated. Walker's office was a carbon copy of John's, though there were personal photo's dotted about – wife, three children, eldest daughter married and first grandchild on the way – and this was not the Colonel's first command if the shots of military personnel were anything to go by.

"I'll admit, Major, I'm concerned. You've been out of green for a year and you've recently lost a very close friend," Walker said it baldly and John refrained from swearing or even just sighing. He knew that he brought baggage with him other than his standard issued kit, but he would never have requested re-enlistment if he'd thought he'd be a danger to others.

"You read the blog," there was resignation in his voice, and Walker nodded, "Sir, he was no fraud. However, that is neither here nor there. I'm here to do a job sir, one that my records show I'm very good at. Am I grieving? Yes. Will it affect my work? No. Sherlock was not the sought to demand wailing and hair tearing, and I'm not the sort to indulge in that."

"No, I can see that," Walker said thoughtfully, "Well, we'll see how we travel together. You understand that I need to balance the wellbeing of this command against your performance."

"I won't let you down," John replied simply. His work would be his answer and at least Walker was up front about his concerns. The Colonel nodded and pressed a button on his intercom.

"Corporal Archer is your assistant," Walker informed John, though John had already read the Corporal's file on the way over, "He's a bit obsessed with Marvel comics, but he's competent all the same. Your predecessor didn't see eye to eye with him."

"I've read his file, sir," John stood as the Colonel did and turned to face the door as Archer entered. He was thin, young and possessed of a pair of glasses that slipped repeatedly down his nose. He saluted perfectly and John and Walker returned it.

"Archer, this is Major Watson," Walker waved a hand, "Show him around the hospital and his quarters. Major I'll expect you up and running by tomorrow morning. Dismissed."

John saluted and caught up his kit, leading the Corporal out into the cold winter sunlight. Archer stepped around him and deftly relieved him of his kit before leading the way, talking as he did and pointing out the various landmarks and general camp layout. John followed close on his heels and put London away for now, intent on his job.

&%&%&


	3. Chapter 3

Forgot in the first chapter – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

AN – oops I posted part of this chapter with the last one! Sorry!

&%&%&

Archer spoke almost without pause the entire way across the compound. He opened doors, pointed in the direction of whatever he was talking about and apparently attempted to download every single item of information in his brain directly into John's ear. When they reached John's office it was bare of everything except the usual army issued furniture and Archer came to a halt beside John's desk, falling silent as he did so.

John looked around for a moment. The last occupant had hung photos on the wall opposite the window – the faint marks on the drab paint clearly indicated this – and had been in the habit of pacing back and forth if the wear on the floor was any indicator. Sherlock would have been able to tell who was in the photos and the height, weight and dominant hand of the absent pacing Major, but that was beyond John's abilities. Calling himself back to the present, John glanced at Archer who was waiting anxiously and nodded.

"Thank you Corporal," he said quietly, "I want to see every person on the night shift before their shift starts and every person on day shift after their shifts ends. As a group, please, not individually. It will only be for a short meeting – one lot will want to get to their duty stations and the other to their dinner, so find us a place that will fit everyone. I'll see your staff with the day shift lot, and I'd appreciate it if there was some sort of tea and coffee on hand so we're not depriving anyone. I'll be in here, working on that in tray of mine, please fetch me seven minutes prior to the first meeting. Leave my kit there, I'll take it through with me when I go to bed."

"Yes sir," Archer looked vaguely hopeful, which tugged at John's conscience. If his predecessor hadn't got along with the boy, then it was down to him to make an effort. Luckily Sherlock had trained John to listen to what John had termed a 'verbal download' and as Sherlock's tendency to sulk was a powerful motivator John had learned very quickly to absorb and prioritise what he was hearing.

Archer left John to it and John was frankly grateful. The in tray was full and prioritised from top to bottom. John had never been a big fan of paperwork, but the army ran on it so he grits his teeth and got on. He'd arrived just after lunch, so the task he'd set Archer wouldn't be impossible, for all it was vaguely worded, and it would give him a good yardstick for how the boy worked. Not that Archer was a boy; it was just his mannerisms that made him seem so very youthful. As a corporal, Archer was in charge of two privates, who assisted with maintaining the stock and inventory for the hospital and assisted with some of the more mundane tasks as well.

The afternoon disappeared into a blur of paperwork, though John would join the roster of rounds and surgery when the roster for the new month began. Precisely seven minutes prior to the shift change there was a knock on John's door and he smiled even as he called for Archer to come in.

"You asked to be fetched, sir," Archer looked inordinately nervous, but John ignored that. The boy would have to get used to his ways, just as he would have to get used to the boys.

"Thank you Corporal. Where are we?"

"The small mess hall, sir. It's used for meetings from time to time, so no one is put out when we borrow it," Archer replied, "With your permission I'll attend both meetings."

"That would be useful," John nodded and led the way. Archer seemed surprised, and John grinned back at the Corporal, "You _did_ point it out to me on the way here, Corporal. I was paying attention."

"Yes sir," Archer sounded a little sheepish.

The meetings were pretty much carbon copies of each other. Though the order of the questions changed, the content of the questions were basically the same. John opened the meeting with a brief introduction and the explanation that he would be holding smaller meetings with the various teams over the course of the next few weeks. He invited them to use the time between now and their scheduled meeting to highlight any inefficiencies or issues they had with the hospital set up so he could get a better picture of the way things ran and then opened the floor to general questions.

Just like his new CO it appeared that several people had read the blog and the first question was usually about 'that internet detective'.

"Yes, I worked with Sherlock Holmes and shared a flat with him. No, he wasn't a fraud and if you've read the blog then you know that's all I'm going to say about it."

Didn't the blurb about you say that you were recently returned from Afghanistan?

"Yes, that's right. I joined up half way through medical school when my parents told me they were no longer going to assist with the bills. The army agreed to finish putting me through school and I served in Ireland for a short time at a training facility, and then did a tour in Iraq. I completed two tours in Afghanistan, and was shot by insurgents about three quarters of the way through my third tour here. I returned to London for recovery and rehab and once that was complete I re-enlisted. This will be my fifth tour overseas, if you count the one where I was shot complete."

You were shot but you came back?

"I am very good at what I do, and while the shoulder won't let me carry the full pack for a long range patrol, there is no reason why I can't serve in a fixed hospital. I look forward to working beside you all."

And that wrapped the meetings up, though Archer had already started scribbling notes about setting up the team meetings. John had sent the Corporal an email only seconds before he was fetched, which would probably be the one time that he was ahead of the young man tasked with organising him.

Although, he'd lived with the king of the unpredictable, so John didn't count himself out of the game just yet.

%&%&%


	4. Chapter 4

Forgot in the first chapter – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

%&%&%

The smaller group meetings were easier to manage, coming as they did with an agenda. They also allowed John to match faces to the files and to learn some of the things that didn't go in the paper work.

Archer, for example, was indeed a comic fanatic, but what Walker hadn't mentioned was that every month the corporal would get a package of his precious comics delivered to the base, along with a good supply of jammie dodgers from his loving mum. John's paper work was always smudged slightly with coloured ink for a few days after a parcel arrived and crumbs could be seen on the corporals' collar where normally there would be none.

Sergeant Bright was a gambler. She joined the cards and dice game run by the motor pool whenever she was off duty, though she had yet to be late for ward duty because of a game. The slight smudges of motor oil were quite indicative and as John had been no stranger to the officers' games in his last tours he reserved judgement. If she started complaining of being broke or her attendance to duty slipped he would step in then. She was a good nurse and popular with the patients and John didn't want to lose her to something as silly as a gambling problem.

Captain Michaels, lead surgeon on one of the three teams John was in command of, was having marital troubles. His wedding ring disappeared at least once a week as he sealed it in an envelope to send back to his wife along with his request for a divorce. He never sent the letter though and the ring always reappeared on his finger. The cause of the trouble was a young man over in Colonel Walker's security division. Long conversations and secluded meetings that were not quite as discrete as either man thought pointed to the relationship, though it seemed that no one else had joined the dots yet.

Sherlock would have gotten more out them of course. He'd have been able to tell which comics Archer had read and his favourites among them, how much Bright was losing and what her preferred game was, and if the crisis in Michael's marriage had more to it than an unexpected discovery about his sexuality. John was only able to read the surface details of the people around him – the obvious things – and Sherlock had often berated him for not delving deeper. John had been reluctant to try, after all who wanted to see the people around you too clearly? Look at how isolated Sherlock's insight made him at times… or had made him before Moriarty's final puzzle. Sherlock was isolated in a whole new way now.

The highlight of John's week was the emails he exchanged with Mrs Hudson. They wrote each other like clockwork: Mrs Hudson passed on the news of London and England, including all the gossip about Mrs Turner's married ones, and John sent anecdotes about the people he worked with, though he was careful not to reveal anything operational.

On Monday's he was allotted a ten minute spot in the communication tents, which meant in reality that he could call home. He'd registered Mrs Hudson as his primary contact back home and would arrive to his allotted time eagerly. The emails were all well and good, but seeing a friendly face and hearing her comforting voice was always a pleasure. He could make sure that she was well, silently diagnosing her health as they talked and at the same time could prove that he was well too and not lying to spare her feelings.

The chats weren't exactly private as the techs were always in ear shot, but he'd warned her of that in an email, so things didn't get too embarrassing. The comms team could be gossips at times, especially about the public calls. That didn't mean she didn't embarrass him once or twice with her scolding about taking care of himself and eating and sleeping properly. John would protest that he was and end up saying 'yes mum' quite meekly, recognising he wasn't going to talk her out of her fussing.

Four weeks into his tour, Mrs Hudson cut their call short herself, saying there was someone who wanted a word with him. For one brief, glorious instant, John expected Sherlock to slip into the vacated chair and his heart rate jumped quite foolishly. Instead DI Lestrade slid into the chair and folded his arms, a quite cross expression on his face and John took a deep breath to steady himself from his disappointment.

"Do you mind telling me what the hell you were thinking…" Lestrade started, his voice low and even. Not Good.

"Swanning off to go and get shot at out there again without so much as a by-your-leave …"

John bristled – no one disrespected the army in his earshot.

"Without even a goodbye text or at least stopping by for a farewell pint?"

Oh. He hadn't really expected the sentence to end like that. He'd always felt as if he was more of an accessory to Sherlock, not someone that the DI actually liked.

"How about a 'welcome back' pint instead?" John offered a little weakly, "You'll have a bit of a wait on your hands, though."

"It will have to do," Lestrade sighed, though he was grinning a bit now, which meant the crossness wasn't entirely genuine, "Mrs Hudson will be sending you my email address. I expect to hear from you."

"Sure," John grinned, "I can manage that. You're looking well, Greg – single life is suiting you."

Missing wedding ring, the line on the finger was visible but starting to fade, slight weight loss, but a healthy aspect to it, and the tension that Greg Lestrade had always carried like a second cloak had dissipated somewhat.

"Bloody hell, John, how'd you… no, don't tell me. If you're channelling _him_ I don't want to know."

"The skills were learnable, Greg, though I'm only good with the immediate surface details," John shook his head, "There will never be another him."

"No, and I don't know if I should be thanking God or cursing him," Lestrade confessed, grief still visible on the man. John nodded and glanced at the timer.

"Time's up," he was a little relieved about this, "I'll see you later, Greg. Give Mrs Hudson a hug for me, yeah?"

"Done," Greg promised and the screen went dark.

John was grateful that he had a moment to himself as he walked back to his office come bunk to get his mind back in order.

&%&%&


	5. Chapter 5

Forgot in the first chapter – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

%&%&%

Of course, just because you work in a war zone doesn't mean you don't have performance targets to meet. There are the obvious ones about fitness and safety and keeping in practice when it comes to maintaining and firing a weapon, as well as ensuring that you are prompt to every duty and every duty is completed within the set parameters.

Doctors in the middle of emergency surgery after a failed incursion or Taliban attack have to meet performance targets too. Luckily for the people under his command, John had a very fine sense of where the line lay between efficiency, stupidity and reality. Efficiency was making sure the supplies were readily to hand and that contingency plans were in place to deal with as many situations that could be reasonably predicted. Even John's back up plans had back-ups – he'd lived with a man who could render the plans of everyone in a two mile radius null and void, so John had gotten used to thinking outside the box. Stupidity was assuming that it took a set amount of time to tend to each casualty on a sliding scale of severity of injury – sometimes you didn't know how badly a soldier was wounded until you got their kit off, or complications could set in part way through the surgery. Sometimes a limb that seemed only mildly damaged need to be amputated, or a very badly damaged limb was salvageable. John had made it clear to his teams that he expected them to save as many limbs as they could – that if faced with a repair that would take longer than usual, they were to go ahead with it anyway. He was mortified to know that there were doctors in the army who had earned the title 'butcher' and there was no way he would allow that kind of behaviour on his base.

Reality was knowing that they couldn't save them all. That there were times when you had to call it quits and literally cut your losses. Reality was remembering that they were operating on people, but the surgeons and nurses wielding the tools were people too. Reality was standing between his command and the 'higher ups' that wanted to know why surgeon x had seen five more patients than surgeon y and why surgeon z had seen only 2.

Reality was also recognising when there was a problem. Michaels, surprisingly enough, was one of the best that John had worked with, leaving his marital problems at the door. Three weeks into John's command, Michaels' wife had filed for divorce, citing his absences overseas among other things. The Captain had been relieved but it hadn't affected his work, which just went to show what a professional he was.

It was Captain Bedford that was the problem. She was a good surgeon, one that specialised in reconstructive surgery, with a sideline in orthopaedics. John himself was a cardio-thoracic specialist, though he was also capable in general surgery, so he understood the difficulties when faced with a repair that was outside of your normal skill set. The triage team were well drilled in funnelling casualties in order of severity to the surgeon that had the best skill set for their particular injury and while there were times when the patient just couldn't wait long enough for the ideal fit, on the whole the skill sets among the surgeons were broad enough that there was nothing the casualties could throw at them that couldn't be dealt with in a fairly timely manner.

Even John had the odd patient that had taken just that bit longer than usual: that demanded that little bit extra time and attention. Emergency surgery was sometimes like standing at a conveyor belt – one body came, was fixed and sent on only to be replaced by another. It wasn't always like that, and after the emergency was over and they had time to wash the blood off and sit down and go over the files with the patients, the practice of medicine once more became about people and not statistics.

Bedford had a quiet bedside manner. She didn't interact with the patients very much, though her touch was deft and careful. She took a long time over every surgery that she performed, though she was just as prone to post surgery complications as the rest of the team. Not that they had a lot of post-surgery complications, it was just a part of practicing medicine.

Bedford's surgical team kept themselves separate. They didn't have much to do with the other teams or each other off duty, which was a stark contrast to the other surgical teams. Even John, who had to expect a certain amount of distance between himself and the people under his command, had a better social life than Bedford.

Bedford was meticulously neat and tidy, but didn't give off the typical markers of someone who experienced OCD tendencies. Her uniform was always neat, her hair was clipped into a buzz cut, her nails trimmed ruthlessly short and she almost always smelled of peppermints. She preferred the Altoids from Marks and Spencers and seemed to have them shipped out by the crate. As habits went it was less destructive to her overall health than smoking, but for John it raised a little flag.

On the off chance that he was right, he contrived to borrow her phone one evening, claiming his was flat and he needed to check the time. He didn't wear a watch to his evening work outs was the excuse he had lined up and ready to go, but Bedford didn't ask. The signs were all too clear and John managed to hand the phone back with an only slightly strained smile.

The base had its own MP's of course, and they had a small kit of the usual investigative tools. There was a breathalyser in there and John convinced the Sergeant in charge to use it on Bedford prior to going into the next round of emergency surgery. Sergeant Palmer was a fan of Sherlock's and had confessed to being an 'avid reader' of the blog. When John mentioned his evidence the simple explanation was good enough for Palmer to follow along. John was devastated when she blew over the legal limit for driving in the UK.

He suspended her team at once, which left them horribly short-handed and left Bedford in Palmer's care. Technically, the base was supposed to be dry of alcohol but even Colonel Walker had a bottle in his desk for the odd tipple. John avoided it like the plague, knowing all too well how easy it would be to follow his sister into their mothers' addiction. The casualties from the last action seemed to never end and John was exhausted by the time the last soldier left his table.

Sergeant Poole, Colonel Walker's assistant, was waiting with a nervously fidgeting Archer as John stepped out of the theatre, letting in the wrap up team to clean and restock it for the next time. He nodded to Poole once and dismissed his team to their usual post op tasks, scrubbing himself hurriedly clean at the nearest sink and pulling on the clean uniform that Archer held for him. Archer promised to have the patient charts ready for John when he got out of his meeting and John thanked the Corporal tiredly, following Poole to the Colonel's office.

"Sit down, Watson," Walker at least recognised an exhausted man when he saw one, "And explain to me, if you would be so good, precisely what tipped you off to Bedford's drinking problem. Palmer blurted something out about a phone, which made zero sense to me."

"Actually sir, the phone was just a small part of it," John replied, "There are two alcoholics in my immediate family, one still alive, and I recognise the symptoms of the addiction."

John went on to explain the observable evidence to his CO, laying it all out factually.

"I have a report prepared," John ended quietly, "I needed to have something to go to the MP's with, and if my diagnosis was incorrect I'd need to have an explanation ready for my court martial."

"Understood," Walker nodded, "In fact, your Corporal brought a copy of that report to me while you were in surgery."

No surprise there. In the five weeks since John had arrived he'd found the corporal to be very efficient. Over the last two weeks he was also becoming very protective of John, something that showed in the way he brought John food and tea at regular intervals and dropped hints about sleeping more. Sometimes John wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt when John had fussed at him.

"I don't understand the reference Poole made to the phone, though and it's not in your report."

"I borrowed her phone to check the time and had a good look at the casing. The port around the power connection is scratched. Her hands shake when she goes to put the connection in at the end of the day, it's part of her addiction. You never see scratches like it in a sober person's phone, but in a drunks…" John trailed off unhappily, thinking back to a cab ride in London and a small triumph over the gender of his sibling. Even then he'd known that it was rare to get one over Sherlock Holmes.

Even now, his friend's boastful and rambling explanations were being put to use.

%&%&


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

%&%&%

And then… not much happened. Or actually a lot happened but it was all part and parcel of daily life and duty in a base sunk deep into enemy territory. John organised a rounders league among his people in an effort to rebuild trust and team work. In the aftermath of Bedford's arrest and the courts-martial of her team – they had all been aware, though some had been pressured into silence – John had broken all of the existing teams up and mingled them with each other and the new personnel sent out by command.

People went on leave and returned. People finished their tours and went home. Archer had a brush with appendicitis and John had performed the emergency appendectomy himself, which earned him a care package from Archer's mum. Lestrade started dating again, a 'nice girl from a shop' according to Mrs Hudson. Lestrade reported that Sherlock's grave had become something of a shrine, much to his brother's disgust. Apparently Mycroft had cornered Lestrade about it and asked that he 'do something to see off these foolish individuals'. John had been saddened to think that his friend had turned into a tourist attraction, but had resolutely put the thought aside. When Lestrade realised how the news affected John – Mrs Hudson's doings again – the subject was dropped and never mentioned again.

It was surprising how living in the middle of a war zone could become so mundane. They got up, tended to patients, paperwork and PT, ate meals with terrible tea, played games, read books, wrote emails home and went to bed. Sometimes there was emergency surgery or a call to action. There was a week of IED's and suicide bombers in the immediate vicinity, but that all settled down. Colonel Walker sanctioned the formation of base wide teams for cricket and rugby – not simultaneously of course – and John found his people were a bit busier icing sprains and strains than they had been before.

Life, as it so often does, went on. The order and structure of the base became second nature. John began to know more of the personnel than just the people on his team as he conducted physicals and got involved in the odd card or video game. (No one was sure where the Xbox had come from and no one was inclined to investigate too closely either. Even Colonel Walker turned a blind eye on the understanding that it didn't interfere with base duties.) Every now and then someone would mention a 'mystery' to John – either in the news from home or something on the base – and he'd laugh (it was a bit strained, but people didn't notice) and point out that he was no deductive genius.

Ten months into his eighteen month tour, John signed up for another stint at Bastion, though it would be his last. The Army, despite the reporting of a sensationalist media, did have a limit on how long someone could be posted in a war zone, and John had almost reached that limit. After the next tour he'd be either cut loose once more or posted somewhere in the UK. John was resolutely not considering that yet – three years would be a long time to grieve and Mrs Hudson would never forgive him if he came back to England and _didn't_ live in Baker Street.

He'd written his daily email to Mrs Hudson, and bi-weekly one to Greg, confirming that he'd be finishing a second tour after his next leave period, and was crossing the camp towards the hospital when the explosion rang out. They had been getting vague intelligence reports for week centred on their area and Walker had called all of his officers together to ensure that the proper level of vigilance was being maintained. Naturally, John had failed to inform Mrs Hudson or Greg of this.

Ducking for the nearest safe cover, John waited a moment to see what would happen next. His instincts were to run for the main gate, the source of the explosion, to tend the wounded. He overrode that instinct sharply, something prickling along his skin. That sensation saved his life as moments later shots rang out, both inside and outside the compound. He saw a young Captain, running from the armoury, take a hit to the shoulder and go spinning into the dirt, retaining his grip on his rifle only just.

John swivelled his head and shouted orders towards the hospital – catching glimpses of his people as they donned the protective armour that he had called for. Archer was also in view, though he was in good cover, and John motioned sharply for him to stay there.

He'd located two separate sources of gunfire, and this late in the day he was able to see the muzzle flash as well, which helped him pinpoint their locations more exactly. John swore silently to himself. The men in the compound were returning fire, but none had John's line of sight. The snipers didn't appear to be looking his way – the muzzle flashes seemed to be pointing more towards the barracks and the gates – which is where the greatest concentration of men were at this time of day. Someone had clearly done their homework.

John shrugged out of his jacket and over shirt, and then put the jacket back on. He shifted himself carefully to a more balanced position and took a deep breath, folding the shirt into a pad. There was no time for second thoughts as he dashed out of cover into the open, reaching the captain who was writhing in the dirt in mere seconds, hooking his hands into the boy's uniform and the strap of the rifle and reversing direction, hauling him along as he skidded back into cover. There was a general spate of fire from his own people, which meant someone had seen him break cover but John ignored it in favour of pulling the casualty to safety and assessing the wound in the rapidly fading light.

Déjà vu hit him as he stuffed his improvised dressing into the wound, stopping the bleeding as best he could and forcing the young man to hold still and assist with putting the pressure on. It was a through and through, though the Captain had been shot from the front and luckily it didn't seem as if the sub-clavian artery had been hit. He made sure they were both fully back in cover and risked a glance back towards his own people who were watching with wide eyes.

"Stay down," he shouted, "Throw me a kit!"

There was a flurry of activity and some muffled shouting as that was organised and they decided who was going to throw what. John bit down on his urge to shout at them to hurry up as his shirt became more and more sodden with his patients' blood. Said kit was heaved towards him at such a clip it nearly knocked him out of cover, but he didn't do more than grunt in annoyance, tearing it open eagerly for the supplies inside. He worked rapidly, replacing his improvised dressing with the real thing, injecting painkillers and antibiotics and stabilising the patient.

Gunfire continued to roar around him and John risked peeking out of cover again. The enemy muzzle flashes hadn't moved, though the calibre of gun had changed. It was not unheard of for insurgents to stockpile a bunch of guns, dig themselves in and then shoot until their ammunition had run out, blowing themselves up at the end as a parting kick. John glanced down at the rifle he'd dragged into cover with them and picked it up, hefting it for a moment and checking the scope. It was a night scope, which was useful.

"Right mate, I'm going to do something about all this, so keep your head down," John warned the Captain and then lined up his first shot. He'd have to be quick, because once he fired he'd be attracting attention and their cover wasn't exactly a fortified bunker. Fortunately, John had a marksman qualification, which he'd kept up to date even outside of the army.

The rifle had a smooth kick to it and it was a moment's work to silence the first gun and his spotter – they were hardly professionals, which was unusual as most insurgents had gone through some sort of training. John overrode his instincts to throw himself back into cover, moving to his second target quickly. If he missed this opportunity he wouldn't get a second one, so now was the time to strike while the iron was hot – so to speak.

He managed to wing the second spotter and do enough damage to the sniper to put him down – moments later there was a second explosion as they martyred themselves for their cause and John ducked back down to check on his patient. The sudden silence was startling, but he could already hear the security teams moving out to ensure that the area was secure.

There was a sound from the hospital and John looked over to see two teams of medics pour out of the building in full protection gear, ducking from building to building and staying low. He waved them away from himself and his casualty, who was already trying to get up again. John grabbed the disoriented young man, hauled him to his feet and half dragged half ran him across the open space to the triage area, shoving him into the arms of a burly nurse and a corpsman that had him flat on his back and wrapped in a blanket before he knew what hit him.

"Right," John muttered, "Stand by for casualties, obviously. I'm going to go find the Colonel and see what's what. Archer – stay here and co-ordinate."

Because there was no way he was going to allow his young corporal to get shot following him around the compound until he was absolutely sure that the danger was past.

John headed back out into the chaos that was the base, barking orders when he came across something he could fix quickly. He kept the rifle with him – no point in relying on a hand gun that didn't have the range until he was sure they were secure – and no one blinked twice at the sight of the head of their hospital walking around armed. He found Sergeant Poole before he found the Colonel – or more accurately, Poole found him – and it wasn't good news.

The Colonel lay by the door to the mess hall. He'd taken a round to the head in the first few seconds of the attack. There was nothing to be done.

%&%&%


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

%&%&%

Despite what some people may think, the death of one commanding officer does not spark an automatic replacement. It's not like the army has a line of colonels waiting to step into a dead man's combat boots. As second in command of the base, it was John's role to ensure that the aftermath of the attack was managed correctly, the wounded evacuated, the dead returned home for burial, the reports filled in, security of the base to be re-established, the damages repaired and intelligence about the attack to be passed on so that other bases could avoid it happening to them.

The explosion at the base entrance had been a 'green on green' action – which meant that one of the soldiers from the Afghan army had triggered the explosion himself. That opened a whole new can of worms and John had to manage the influx of intelligence types and Special Forces that arrived to investigate and seek out any further insurgents hiding in plain sight. John was fairly sure at least two of the men who turned up were in Mycroft's employ as they seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time checking on his actions before during and after the attack and altering some of the security in the base to favour John's protection.

John ignored them and got on with his job. Captain Michaels took over the job of running the hospital with Archer at his side, nudging him into the filing of reports and all the other administration that had bogged John down daily. Poole was doing the same for John, though Walker had left everything in perfect order and John was determined to maintain that order.

He'd had time to send Mrs Hudson a quick email to say that he was fine but he couldn't contact her for a bit, which wasn't ideal because Martha Hudson was not a fool and she'd know at once from the media reports what had happened. Still, he'd sit through that scolding when he had to, no point in anticipating it now.

Sixteen months into his tour, six months after the attack, Colonel Walker's replacement arrived. John was pleased to see him, as he had been struggling with the management of the base. Not that he couldn't do the job, it was more that he didn't want to. He was a doctor, not a commanding officer and while managing the hospital was not outside of his training or disposition, overseeing the mechanics and security forces and everyone else was as foreign to him as playing the violin on stage.

John had not been disappointed to be passed over for promotion. Medicine was as much a calling as a profession and he hadn't liked giving it up for the six months that he'd spent in command. Now they were to welcome Colonel Halford to the base, only two months before John's own greatly anticipated leave. The Colonel arrived one the weekly transport and two men hurried his bags over to where John and Poole waited, putting them down while salutes were being exchanged and practically bolting back the way they'd come.

Halford was meticulously dressed – his uniform still crisply creased and not so much as a hair out of place. He had a swagger stick tucked under one arm, which was highly unusual but not against regs. His face was carved from granite and his eyes had even less warmth than Moriarty's had. John did his best to ignore the alarm bells that were ringing even now and fell into step at the barked command from the Colonel with Poole tagging along behind.

The Colonel's office was immaculate. John had seen to that, ensuring the desk was spotless and set out properly, although he was sure that Poole had also checked it over. Halford swept into the office and put them at attention before seating himself and beginning what to John's mind could only be classed as an interrogation.

The attention posture is rigid and, for the most part, unbalanced. The soldier at attention has their feet firmly together, which means the rest of the body is working overtime to maintain balance, their spine is completely straight and their hands are pointed, forming a blade shape with the fingers pointing at the ground. Attention is usually used for short periods of time, minutes at most, and varies wildly from the guarding version of attention, where the person on guard has a better balanced posture, their feet slightly apart and firmly planted to allow for good balance and stability, their hands slightly curled, though fingers are still pointing down.

Standing at attention for long periods of time is not recommended. Four hours after Halford sat down, John and Poole were still there. It was painful, humiliating and in John's personal opinion, entirely unnecessary. There is a reason that a standing debrief is conducted in the at-ease position. Of course the physical pain was nothing compared to the pain of being made to feel that after six months of steady and hard work you've been nothing but a failure. Poole had been ordered to remain silent early on in the interrogation, which meant that John had to rely on his memory alone for the answers to the finicky and difficult questions that were being aimed at him.

Even more galling was the knowledge that the questions could easily be answered by reading the paperwork that John and Poole had laboured over together. It was clear that Halford was not interested in reading the summaries, briefings and reports that were available at a moment's notice. Instead he seemed to take a mean delight in asking John and tutting with patent disapproval if the Major had to take more than a few seconds to reply. Sherlock's memory had been eidetic and John would have given anything for a portion of that ability now. It didn't help that Halford kept tapping the swagger stick on his hand or the table with a distinct air of menace – John had been menaced by better men than the Colonel but it spoke rather disturbingly of some underlying problem that a senior officer felt it appropriate to imply threats of violence to a subordinate – and one that had not committed any crime or transgression at that.

At four and a half hours they reached the leave schedule for the coming months and John made sure to keep his voice even and professional when he added that he himself was due a three month furlong back in the UK.

Halford exploded. The torrent of words was made all but indecipherable by the sheer volume, though John retained enough of his senses to follow his new CO out to the communications hut. Halford's arrival made several people jump, though a few had the sense to turn the startled reaction into a jump to attention, something that their colleagues were quick to emulate. It was the middle of the day, so a full shift was present, as well as several of the men from various departments on their scheduled contact home calls.

Halford was roaring orders before he'd even cleared the door and John saw several badly schooled expressions of shock as he and Poole came to a halt behind the irate Colonel, snapping once more to attention. At least the short walk had allowed John to work some of the kinks out of his bitterly protesting muscles.

Brigadier Pembleton-Smyth appeared on the main screen, smiling genially at them all and greeting Halford with his typical informality. Pembleton-Smyth had been the man that John had been reporting steadily to for the last six months and though John had always maintained a formal style with the Brigadier they'd developed a good working relationship.

"Colonel Halford! I find it hard to believe that there's a problem already. Major Watson has been very diligent in his duties!" Pembleton-Smyth chuckled, "Hallo, John!"

John saluted but made no attempt to speak, not wanting to set Halford off.

"I am informed, Colonel, that this, this… _individual_ intends to take leave in two months' time!" Halford waved his swagger stick at John, who leaned back slightly to avoid being hit, coming back to attention as soon as the gesture was past.

"That's right," the Brigadier frowned, his voice hardening in response to the obvious insubordination in the Colonel's tone, "Major Watson is due three months leave at the end of his eighteen month tour. His leave has been scheduled for some time."

"In other words he's been sent to spy on me for the first two months and then he'll be back with you lot, reporting!" Halford's voice was becoming uncomfortably shrill and John shifted, wondering if there was something more going on than just a temper tantrum by an insecure senior officer who was trying to make his mark on his subordinates by throwing his weight around. That had been his assumption to this point. He hadn't exactly spent the last few hours in a posture that would allow him to practice that skill that Sherlock had called 'long distance diagnoses. Sherlock had always been especially delighted when John diagnosed the people they came in contact with, without using a formal examination. John had attributed that to his friend enjoying the application of deduction by someone else. Being the world's only deductive genius had to be lonely.

From behind, there was nothing obvious. Halfords hands were moving too quickly for him to note any tremors and there was no way to tell if the Colonel's flushed neck was more than just a by-product of his temper. John was very careful not to call it a tantrum, although the tone and stamping foot certainly moved it to that classification. Pembleton-Smyth was looking less like everyone's favourite Uncle and more like the commanding officer that he was as the tirade continued. Halford was a polar opposite, becoming more and more shrill and unreasonable as his tirade continued.

"Sir," John risked breaking attention, moving to the right slightly in an attempt to see Halford's face. Something was wrong, even if it was just some form of mental breakdown and although he was indeed a soldier he'd always been a doctor first, "Sir, perhaps…"

"… and I won't let him go back and spread lies about me! If you won't stop him I will!" Halford was shrieking. He whirled on the spot and John just didn't have enough time to dodge the swagger stick as it whistled through the air, connecting with his throat in a sickening crunch.

John's instincts, sharpened by over a year of fighting on the streets of London with thugs from all walks of life, kicked into play and he snatched the stick away, throwing it clear of the field of combat. Even as the other men and women in the tent rushed into belated movement Halford leapt forward, managing to get his hands around John's throat and squeeze, making the pain he felt from the welt even worse.

_His pupils are dilated. He's sweating but not hot and he's pale. Drugs. Probably in the swagger stick, it's too rigid to be unaltered._

The diagnosis and deduction ran through his mind even as he dug weakening fingers into the Colonel's wrists, trying to break the insanely strong grip. Then Poole was there, following them to the floor as John collapsed and Halford fell with him, hooking his arms around the Colonel and pulling back so hard that John was lifted by his neck. His hands slipped away as darkness impinged on his vision, replaced by others. For one brief moment John wondered what Sherlock would say when they met in the afterlife – if his friend would drag him off to investigate some otherworldly mystery.

There was shouting and noise and then the hands were gone and John thumped to the floor. He sucked hard for air, the sense of constriction around his throat barely eased once the grip was gone. The shouting receded a little and Poole's hand landed on his forehead.

"Swagger stick," John wheezed, ignoring the tears that streamed down his face, "Drugs."

"Yes sir," Poole replied and shouted an order over his shoulder, which was acknowledged, but didn't remove his hand from John's forehead or his eyes from John's face, "Breathe, sir. The corpsman and Dr Michaels are en route."

"Trying," John gasped, his whole body struggling to take air in through a rapidly shrinking airway. He could hear Pembleton-Smyth demanding answers and the voice of a shaken Lieutenant replying. The darkness was still encroaching and John wondered how bad the damage was. Pretty bad if the pain was an indicator, but John didn't have a lot of faith in that assessment. Trauma tended to come with skewed responses – a paper cut could be an agony while a broken leg was barely noticeable.

He was going to miss his next check in with Mrs Hudson at this rate. He was in sooo much trouble. The thought was incongruous and he wheezed out a faint giggle as the darkness finally won and blocked out Poole and all the shouting. John let the peace take him.

%&%&


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

%&%&%

John spent the next week flat on his back, heavily sedated. They'd performed a tracheotomy to re-establish his airway, which meant he'd also been given a load of muscle relaxants to stop him from panicking when he awoke. Personally, he wasn't sure what was worse: the feeling of air coming in from an opening that had never been designed to be there, or the feeling that his body was not under his own control. Not that he wanted for help while the trach was in – if the nursing staff weren't close by then any other member of his team was a mere lift of the finger away, provided of course that all of them could beat Archer and his eerie gift for anticipation. The swelling in his throat had gone down quite quickly, thankfully, so the trach was removed after only three days.

Despite the swelling, the damage to his throat wasn't too bad. The blow from the swagger stick was actually located quite high up, high enough to miss his larynx which would have been badly damaged by a direct hit. The choking hands had not irreversibly damaged his trachea and his hyoid was still intact and correctly located. Once he'd got the swelling down and the drugs out of his system, John would be fit for duty again. Or he would be if those in command hadn't decided that he and Halford should return to England for an in-person report. There was a slew of officers descending on the base to take over command, the sort who crawl out of the woodwork when something has gone pear shaped, and John resigned himself to leaving his hospital in the hands of others. Archer was also due for leave, which meant that the administration side of things would also be without the usual steady hand.

Archer was the one who collected him from his hospital bed, where Michaels had helped him get dressed. Michaels had already had his leave and returned to duty, so John didn't have to worry about the hospital going to pot when all the experienced people left and Archer had been training a replacement for himself for months. John had been curious as to how he'd manage with a different Corporal – he'd gotten used to Archer's psychic ways. Poole was an entirely different model of organisation, though John had no trouble adapting to it.

"You should have gone on leave the day after Halford arrived," John rasped, frowning at the Corporal who was carrying both their kits and doing his level best to carry John as well. A week spent flat on your back, doped with muscle relaxants did not a co-ordinated Major make.

"I've delayed it a week," Archer replied tersely, "It didn't seem right to leave y… the base in disarray."

John squeezed the shoulder his hand was gripping and didn't protest any further as they made their way to where the truck and a couple of vehicles were waiting. Sergeant Palmer trotted over from the MP's station and handed John a slim case which he announced was 'evidence' and then personally wrapped a blue and white cotton shemagh, just like the ones used by the local men to keep the dust out, around John's neck 'to protect your dressing sir'. He saluted and trotted back towards his office without looking back or waiting for thanks. Halford was ahead of them, his stretcher being loaded onto the transport. John was not looking forward to riding with him and so he was relieved when Archer steered him to a land rover and a Private jumped forward to help John get in while Archer dealt with their bags.

The trip to England was spent in a bit of a daze. John tired easily after a week in bed, mostly drugged to the gills with painkillers and military transportation was not exactly designed for comfort. They were sharing the plane with Halford, but his stretcher was latched on the other side of the plane and there was a separate medic assigned to him, as well as a burly MP who watched everything like a hawk. The Private who had been in the camp had come with them, carrying the bags as Archer fussed in his own way getting John settled carefully for each new stage of the trip. The bruising around John's neck was still spectacular in colour and sensitive to touch, which made getting comfortable difficult. No one mentioned the shemagh, which was hardly part of the uniform and therefore not strictly allowed.

The Private at least offered some distraction for John's pained thoughts. The man was wearing a uniform that had seen at least six months of wear in the desert, but his tan was non-existent. He was very aware of the military protocols and the short hand that those protocols devolved into, but his watch was not suitable for military service. Clearly he was a plant for someone in the intelligence field and John wondered if Mycroft was sticking his nose in once more, though why the elder Holmes would continue to be interested in John was a question for a smarter man.

Their arrival in England saw Halford packed off to a medical facility and the Private announcing that he'd be seconded to John for the duration of his report to command. Archer was dismissed, which was a breach of protocol, but as the young man had already played fast and loose with the leave schedule to stay with John, the Major ensured that the Corporal would leave and not get into further trouble. They exchanged contact details and John watched Archer head reluctantly for the exit.

"So, how much trouble am I in?" John rasped, hefting the 'evidence' case and reaching for his kit. The Private beat him to it, giving him a Look. That was also distinctly out of character, but John let it pass.

"None that I'm aware of sir. It was put to me that as you were on medical leave it would be to your advantage to have some assistance. I was pleased for the opportunity."

"Very well, Private Green," John waved a hand, an indication for the Private to lead on. He took a mean satisfaction in the surprise on the Private's face – the man had never introduced himself using his full name, but the thing about uniforms is that they came with a name badge sewn in. Everyone in the army quickly became used to the idea that your name was indelibly marked on you for all to see.

John was shown to base accommodation and left to settle in. It reminded him of the depressing little flat he'd had with the MOD after his first discharge. The Private informed him that his first meeting with Command was tomorrow and John nodded waving him off. Once the Private was gone he switched his phone on and texted Mrs Hudson, letting her know he'd arrived safely and was about to go to bed to get some sleep. The time differences played hell with his circadian rhythms, so it was better to force them into some sort of order now.

The meeting with the brass was not what John had expected. Brigadier Pembleton-Smyth was there as were several of his peers, two men that were clearly from an Intelligence Organisation and of course the Private. John was shown to a chair at the conference table, offered a cup of tea, the Private also provided a glass of water and the brass fell to discussing Halford almost among themselves.

It seemed that Halford's last command had been relieved when the Colonel was relieved. They had not reported the instability or quirks of the Colonel prior to his transfer to John's post, nor were they going to until Halford snapped and attacked his second in command. Once the news of his actions had reached his last posting, several people had come forward to add their reports to the mess. John was beginning to wonder what was wrong with the culture, that a commanding officer who was obviously unstable was not reported to the correct authorities.

"Halford's main complaint seemed to be that Watson here wasn't going to hand command over to him, in fact that he was going to undermine Halford at every opportunity," the Brigadier stated early on. John diagnosed that as the ravings of a paranoid addict, a private diagnosis that was borne out by the medical reports presented to the meeting.

"But were you in fact welcoming to Halford, Major?" one of the Intelligence drones asked. John supressed his first three responses to that question and nodded instead, confirming that the Colonel had been welcomed the moment he stepped off the transport, that John and Staff Sergeant Poole had in fact been waiting for him and that the office he was shown to was immaculate – not a single object that could be construed as personal to John remaining in it – not even a chewed pen lid or a tea cup mark.

John was then called on to report his part in the attack against him, and he did so painfully, his voice cracking and rasping and on one occasion giving way altogether. The damage to his throat may be temporary, but that didn't make it less painful. He saw several of the brass in the room wincing in sympathy and one or two even cleared their own throats a couple of times. Thankfully, his part was fairly short to relay, after which he was left to listen to the rest of the meeting.

Part of him wondered why he was still here. After all, it wasn't his place to listen to the disgracing of a senior officer, even if the man had made a spirited attempt to kill him only a week ago. That was eventually answered when the meeting moved on to Halford's replacement, a newly minted Colonel by the name of Ainslie, who would need the support of an 'experienced second in command'. John was fully expecting to be told his leave was cancelled and he was going straight back to Bastion, in which case Mrs Hudson would be furious, but instead the talk turned to his current rank.

"After all, Watson was overdue for his promotion to Major the first time he was shot, not to mention he'd been acting in the role for some time," Pembleton-Smyth announced, "He's overdue for his next step up, and I don't think anyone in this room can deny that he's capable."

John looked down at his clasped hands, not wanting to take any part in this. He'd never been about climbing ranks, and if they promoted him too high he wouldn't be able to remain in the medical side of things. Plus, a part of him didn't want another promotion that had Mycroft's grubby paws all over it – no one had mentioned outside influences, but John rather thought he could sense the shadow of his best friend's older brother. Promotions that weren't earned by merit meant that useless or incompetent officers rose above their level.

The Private's watch made an embarrassingly loud alarm noise, which turned out to be his reminder that John needed to take his next round of medication. John managed to restrain a number of Sherlockian responses to this announcement which was not easy, especially when Colonel McBride asked if he'd been taking proper care of his wound as he understood that infections could settle in quite quickly to that area of the body.

"In fact, Major," Pembleton-Smyth announced, "I want you to be seen by the base medics. Take him along, Private and then you're dismissed for the day, Major. I'll organise an appointment with you first thing tomorrow. We'll organise transport home for you as well, you may was well take whatever medical leave the doctors recommend and then start your long service leave straight after."

"Yes sir," John replied, his voice cracking halfway through. It was almost as bad as being a teenager again, really. He obediently followed the solicitous man-who-wasn't-a-Private across the compound and dismissed him once they'd reached their destination, preferring to find his own way for now. There was going to be a wait, but John employed his time wisely, texting Mrs Hudson while he was sat in the waiting room, letting her know he'd be home tomorrow.

Home to rooms that were echoingly empty – but home none-the-less.

%&%&%


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

AN – I promise I haven't abandoned this fic – RL has taken over once more. There are about three more chapters to go, which will include of course the great reveal of Sherlock being alive and the reunion as well.

%&%&%

The Private collected him from Brigadier Pembleton-Smyth's office, John's single kit bag already in hand. John was too stunned to really take in anything other than the content of the conversation he'd just had, but he _did_ hear the quiet,

"I've taken the liberty of altering the insignia's on the rest of your uniforms, sir."

The crown and pip on his shoulder seemed heavy to him. A promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel had never been an ambition of his, but here it was for all to see. Pembleton-Smyth was effusive in his praise and emphatic in his insistence that John had earned this on his merits alone, 'not that there was ever any doubt, despite that old meddler trying to put his two bob in'. Sherlock would have liked to hear Mycroft called an old meddler, John was sure.

They walked through the base towards the front gate, John returning salutes as they went, his mind clearing with every step. Harry would be furious. She'd always been against his joining the Army, and when he'd emailed her about his last promotion the resulting alcohol fuelled tirade had been almost enough for him to declare all ties between them cut.

"Well sir," the Private said as they reached the outside world, "It's been a real privilege to meet you."

Odd phrasing, John thought, as the man opposite him was in Intelligence and John's dealings with them had ended with his last tour in Iraq. Never-the-less, he returned the salute that was offered.

"Thank you Private," John replied in a rasp, "A word to the wise, if you'll permit me to break cover for a moment. One should always ensure your tan matches the wear on your uniform."

Green, if that was even his name, looked startled and then laughed, the first genuine expression that John had seen from the man. He handed over John's kit bag and waved a hand at the road.

"Your car, sir," he said and John turned to see the ubiquitous black car pull up beside him. John had been expecting train tickets, not one of Mycroft's minions and before he could start in on a really cathartic tantrum, the back door opened and Mrs Hudson popped out. She was across the pavement and hugging him in what seemed like nanoseconds and before John knew what was what he'd been installed in the car with a blanket and a pillow while the driver put his bag in the boot and Mrs Hudson fussed over him, insisting that he get some sleep for the drive home. John knew a force of nature when he encountered one and leaned back, closing his eyes and resolving to put on at least a show of sleeping for a while.

He next opened his eyes outside Baker Street. Mrs Hudson's smirk could have rivalled Sherlock's on his best day, but John was a gentleman and didn't mention it. He got the bags inside and agreed to come downstairs for dinner. It was easy to bypass the front room, tossing his kit bag on the bed and unpacking it methodically. The things he didn't need went back into the bag; the rest was either hung up or put into the basket for washing. The shemagh was folded carefully away and then John couldn't delay any longer.

For a moment as he stood in the doorway he could see the ghost of Sherlock, gone almost two years now, sitting in his armchair, one long leg tossed over the other and his hands pressed together in that prayer like posture as he raked John with the typical deducing-what-you-have-done-while-away-from-me look. John took a deep breath and the ghost faded away. He gritted his teeth and headed for the kitchen and the first cup of decent tea he'd had since he re-enlisted in the army.

Mrs Hudson gave him two weeks off, and then put him to work. Just before Sherlock had died, she'd had builders in to get rid of the mould and take care of the structural issues that had made flat C unliveable. All that was left to do was redecorate and John had been pressed into completing this. He was grateful for this as Sherlock's ghost was quite persistent. It lurked in the kitchen when John was making tea, sulked on the couch when he went out for the shopping, tutted from the armchair at John's TV shows and lurked in the window as John went off for a pint with Lestrade.

There were days when John was certain his flatmate was just in the other room, and he was slowly becoming accustomed to the pang of disappointment whenever the ghost faded away.

Mrs Hudson's decorative tastes hadn't changed, but John found the challenge of papering, painting, plumbing and assembly of flat pack kitchen cabinets to be an oddly soothing task. Halfway through his leave, he'd finally finished, even managing to lay a floating floor over the rough concrete that had formed the basement floor that looked as if it had been laid by a professional. He watched Mrs Hudson show real estate agents around proudly, pointing out the careful attention to detail and the 'design features' that she's presided over like a dictator tending to her flock.

The real estate agents nod and suggest a few rental prices with an eye to a large commission. One of them mentions the 'old fashioned style' and is firmly escorted from the premises by John when Mrs Hudson's face falls. They manage to find the right fit though and two months into John's leave there are new tenants moving in to flat C. One is 'something in design' and dresses like David Tennant did when he was the doctor – skinny suits and trainers and scruffy hair. The other is 'something in IT' and wears chic Goth, all miniskirts and baby dolls with pointed jewellery, dark make up and long black hair flowing to her waist.

They seem nice enough, though John doesn't have a lot to do with them as they moved in using professionals and seem to leave early and return late. He's never had cause to knock on the door on Mrs Hudson's behalf to ask them to quieten down or something similar and nor has he had to borrow a cup of sugar. This leaves him free to go out with some of what Sherlock had called 'the hospital lot' – friends from Barts and Thomas' mainly as well as a few people from med school who'd moved to back to London while John was deployed.

He also has time to go out with Lestrade. Despite the fact that they had been introduced by Sherlock and had spent a lot of time standing around with a dead body or a ranting genius between them, they had a lot to discuss.

John could, and did, share the anecdotes from Bastion that he hadn't been able to mention through the email or in the communications tent. Sure, he was in the middle of a warzone and there were days when life seemed to be nothing more than a sea of dismembered men and women floating in a sea of blood, but there were also moments of pure hilarity.

In turn, Greg had anecdotes of his new team. Donovan and Anderson had transferred out of his unit when an anonymous tip to the media outed their relationship. Anderson had been embroiled in a bitter divorce, but with both parties proven cheats they'd come out about even in the end. Of course that didn't mean there wasn't a fairly interesting parade of dirty tricks, histrionics and nasty episodes. Donovan had by that point been well out of it, transferred out to Coventry – literally.

In their place, Greg had a new DS, a Scotsman by the name of Bradford, prone to the odd practical joke, though never anything that would interfere with a case, with a wickedly sharp tongue, a keen eye for the finer points and a mind for recollection of the minutest of facts. This was belied by his bulk – the man was tall and bulky, though according to Lestrade he went as quick as a 'rat up a drain pipe'. Anderson had been replaced by a very young pathologist by the unlikely name of Bernie Spilsbury. Bernie was earnest and a little clumsy when moving around the office, but on a crime scene he was focussed and as graceful as any dancer. He picked up a level of detail that Anderson had never achieved and was able to take the smallest of fibres and track them back to their source so quickly that he made Anderson's work rate seem glacial in comparison.

All well and good – the pranks and quips from Bradstreet gave both men many a laugh over their pint – but the one who gave Lestrade the most to talk (moan, whinge and even on rare occasions despair) about was the new Detective Constable, one Anthony Hopkins, or the 'Pup' as Bradstreet had promptly christened the young man on his first day in the office. Hopkins had boundless enthusiasm that had yet to be tempered by experience and in some cases, common sense. He asked endless questions and was thrilled to be working with Lestrade and his team.

"He would have driven Sherlock absolutely crackers," Greg said sadly, and John grinned. Sherlock was already crackers, imagining him even more so was beyond all human powers. Sherlock would either have seen the young man as a nuisance and run him off in quick order, or he'd have seen him as a potential acolyte and promptly brain-washed him. Either way, it would have been a sight to see.

"Pity they never met," Greg continued, his tone now wicked in a way that John had rarely heard when his friend was alive. John grinned in reply and toasted the sentiment silently.

%&%&%


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

AN – I promise I haven't abandoned this fic – RL has taken over once more. There are about two more chapters to go, which will include of course the great reveal of Sherlock being alive and the reunion as well.

%&%&%

Sherlock was oddly glad to see Mycroft. Not because of any brotherly feelings of family love, but mostly because he was almost certain Mycroft wouldn't try to kill him in the next few minutes.

It had been a long three years. He'd travelled extensively to take apart Moriarty's network and the threat against John. The trouble was that in the eleven months that he and John had lived together he'd come to rely on the other man in a way that was, for Sherlock, unprecedented. John represented safety and comfort, two things that Sherlock publically scorned but apparently needed. With John he could take greater risks and reach greater heights. Without John he had to constantly watch his back and weigh every action carefully. With John he was cared for, the minutia of life was irrelevant. Without John he was forced to deal with many little things that slowed him down.

Of course the threat to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade was also removed – Sherlock was not so selfish as to concentrate all his efforts just on John. He cared for the three of them, in his own unique way, and Moriarty's threat was completely unacceptable. The assassins that had been hired found that out to their own detriment in short order, but they were not the end of the problem. Moriarty's death had created a bit of a power vacuum, and Mycroft had unfortunately been right when he'd said the challenge would be to take down the international organisation from the outside. Sherlock had been forced to adopt and discard a variety of identities – in some cases the role he was playing had once belonged to a real person, which was always an exquisite challenge – and to move from country to country, not always legally. He'd stopped several people smuggling rings, including a vile group of child slavers, taken apart an entire drug cartel and had even interfered in the weapons black market.

It would have been easier if John was there. Sherlock could not deny that fact.

However, the time had come to return home. Mycroft had agreed that the last of Moriarty's network needed to be removed from England, and had further agreed to gather John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade into protective custody. Sherlock was going to go and see them, reassure Mrs Hudson and get John to come with him. Lestrade could come too if he liked, as a sort of fix for the damage that had probably been done to his career at the Yard. It would be good to have people he could trust at his side again.

Mycroft was clearly on another diet, but apart from that he'd changed very little in the last three years. Heavily encrypted communication wasn't exactly designed to allow you to catch up on family news, not that Sherlock wanted the details of Mycroft's life, but it was oddly reassuring to know that your brother was well as always.

"How touching," Mycroft drawled. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You on the other hand, seem to have changed a great deal, little brother."

"Obvious," Sherlock replied. His hair was longer than normal, he was wearing jeans and a jumper and broken in boots and there was a tattoo on his forearm, a caduceus with a set of dog tags hanging from it. That was the only mark on either forearm – he had not returned to the drugs in his travels. John hated the drugs and Sherlock couldn't afford to be compromised. He'd had to remain vigilant at all times for the last three years – no mean feat, even for someone as clever as he was.

"I'd like to see them now, Mycroft," Sherlock was not going to sink to Mycroft's level, "I've got a lot to do in the next two days, and John will be helpful. Mrs Hudson won't like being confined for longer than strictly necessary, even if it is at your home."

"You can see DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson of course," Mycroft replied easily, "But I'm afraid that John is no longer with us, Sherlock."

"If you're trying to imply that John has become some sort of criminal, Mycroft I will be forced to doubt your intelligence more than I already do," Sherlock replied, doing his best not to show that his lips were numb and his skin prickling all over. It was not acceptable that John be dead, which was what the phrase 'no longer with us' implied. John was not allowed to be dead or hurt in any way. The last three years had all been for John. Sherlock refused to believe that he had separated them for nothing.

"Of course he hasn't Sherlock," Mycroft tutted, "The very idea… No, I mean he is literally not here. He is not in England and I'm afraid I cannot fetch him back for you in time to assist your final endeavours. You'll have to make do with Inspector Lestrade."

"Where. Is. John?" the question was bitten out in a tone that Sherlock had never used with his brother before, not even in the worst of the drug days. He saw it hit home in the slight straightening of Mycroft's shoulders and the tightening of the skin around his eyes. Lesser men had begged and pleaded when that tone had been used in the last three years. Sherlock privately thought of it as his 'cross' tone.

"One month after your burial, John came to me and delivered an ultimatum. I could assist him with re-enlisting in the military or he would volunteer for Medecins Sans Frontieres, no doubt heading for the most dangerous spots he could find. He gave me one week in which to decide and I had no reason to doubt his words," Mycroft replied in a tone that was even and calm. Sherlock knew better.

"You let him _re-enlist_?" that was a shriek, but Sherlock was too enraged to properly police his tone and anyway, what was Mycroft thinking. This was _John_ and he'd been let to re-join the army? They'd got him shot, the last time!

"The army was eager to have him back. They promoted him at once and posted him to Bastion. He's not a frontline surgeon any more, the shoulder disqualifies him from that, but he is head of the medical teams out there," Mycroft informed him loftily, "He was promoted again recently. He's a Lieutenant Colonel now. It was deserved of course, nothing to do with me."

"Of course John deserved it," Sherlock scoffed, "He hardly needs you to get him promoted."

Mycroft sniffed at him, then stood, "If you're ready, I'll take you along to Mrs Hudson and Inspector Lestrade. I'm sure they'd like to know that you're still alive."

Sherlock ignored the 'heaven knows why' that Mycroft added under his breath as routine, getting up reluctantly and following his brother out of the formal reception room and along the manors halls to the guest wing. He was not so socially unaware that he thought his reunion was going to go easily. Lestrade's career and standing had been damaged by the actions of Moriarty and Sherlock himself, and Mrs Hudson had already suffered one betrayal in her life. Her reaction was one that he had a hard time predicting, perhaps because he had never quite understood why she was so fond of him in the first place. John seemed to understand her better than Sherlock, even if it was Sherlock that she favoured.

There was no cowardice in his decision to step to the side, partly hidden in the custom made bookcase that surrounded the door to the library where Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were waiting. Mycroft continued into the room with only a tut of admonishment, the smug set to his shoulders stating clearly that once again he was being called upon to tidy up Sherlock's mess. Sherlock hid a smirk – his brother had _no_ idea who he was dealing with.

"Finally!" Lestrade's voice was impatient, but not at the edge that had John intervening using his 'doctors voice' and easing the man to sit on the nearest suitable surface.

"Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs Hudson chimed in, "You tell me what is going on right now, young man!"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," Mycroft replied and Sherlock didn't bother hiding his smirk at the slightly unnerved tone in his brother's voice. Mrs Hudson sounded quite like mummy when she spoke like that.

"I apologise for the sudden need to remove you from your routines, however there has been a development that requires the utmost secrecy and delicacy," Mycroft continued in a smarmy tone.

"Oh god, it's John," Mrs Hudson sounded devastated. Sherlock didn't like that tone. Mycroft was going to pay for that tone, "What's happened to him?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Watson is entreily unharmed and safe," Mycroft hurried to reply, "He is at his post, as always. The development I speak of relates to Sherlock."

"You mean… you've finally decided to clear his name?" Lestrade asked blankly. Sherlock blinked in shock. He'd known that John at least would have wanted Sherlock's name to be cleared, but he'd never expected Lestrade to want it as well. If Lestrade had only been concerned about clearing Sherlock's name to restore his own reputation that question would have come out very differently.

"Sherlock was made aware, three years ago, that Moriarty had hired assassins to kill Mrs Hudson, yourself and Lieutenant Colonel Watson. He was given a simple choice – kill himself or watch the three of you die. Sherlock had no intention of dying, of course, but he could not allow Moriarty to threaten you, nor could he allow the other man to win their tedious little game. Moriarty shot himself, rather than allowing Sherlock to deduce the code that would call off the assassins, and Sherlock was forced to fake his death in order to keep DI Lestrade, yourself and Lieutenant Colonel Watson safe."

There was silence following Mycroft's speech. Sherlock wished he could fidget. He wasn't sure that he wanted to see the expressions on Mrs Hudson and Lestrade's faces at the moment. He wasn't sure he wanted to step out into the library in the aftermath of Mycroft's pompous declarations.

"We have, of course, since removed the threat of the assassins," Mycroft added after an interminable moment, "Sherlock has spent the last three years taking apart Moriarty's little criminal network, which has international ramifications. However the final piece of the network is here in London and the time has come to finish it off."

More silence. Mycroft was beginning to sound unnerved by the reactions he was seeing, or not seeing as the case may be. Sherlock was pleased by this – anyone who could unnerve his brother was interesting and since it was two of the three most important people in his life unnerving Mycroft…

"Sherlock wanted to ensure you were both safe, and wishes to see you before he puts his final plan into action, if…"

"Sherlock Holmes, you get out here right now," the exasperated father in Lestrade had apparently come out to play. Sherlock grinned. He loved causing that tone in Lestrade's voice. He wiped the grin quickly though, stepping out from his sheltered spot – not a hiding place – and walking calmly over towards the glowering DI. Lestrade had gotten a bit older, naturally, and he'd finally left his wife.

"Oof," Sherlock gasped as Lestrade grabbed him in a rough hug, pinning his arms tightly to his sides in a manner that was quite uncomfortable. It didn't stop him from investigating the contents of Lestrade's closest pockets, though.

"You utter bastard," Lestrade let go as abruptly as he'd hugged him, pushing him away roughly, "Have you any idea what you've put us through?"

"Oh Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson wrapped him up next, though Sherlock was able to move his arms and return the hug, "Look at you!"

"I apologise, Mrs Hudson, for the upset I've put you through," Sherlock knew that John would be pleased that he had at least apologised to their often beleaguered landlady. He was a bit alarmed at the sniffle he got in return – he didn't have any other clean clothes at the moment – but she pulled her head out of his chest, her eyes as bright as ever. A moment later he was yelping in pain, his left buttock stinging quite badly.

"Don't you ever do that again, young man! You're not so big I can't put you over my knee!" Mrs Hudson glared at him, an expression quite at odds with the smile on her face. Lestrade was sniggering in the background. Sherlock pouted at her for a moment, before nodding in contrition. She nodded in satisfaction and sat down in the armchair she'd been occupying when he entered the room.

"Now, then," she folded her hands in her lap, "How are we going to catch these buggers?"

There were times when Sherlock positively adored Mrs Hudson.

A/N – we're nearly finished! I promise to do the reunion with John shortly (provided I don't need surgery, mum recovers from her surgery and nothing else goes wrong with the house… sheesh)

%&%&%


End file.
